A Wicked Plan

by Rod Kackley

  Paul knew that is what his buddy missed more than anything. Every night they’d sit at the Lamplighter in downtown St. Isidore, talking in hushed tones about the girls and their wonderful bodies.

  “T-and-A heaven is what it is,” Tim would stage whisper over their bottles of Bud during his teaching days.“T-and-A heaven.”

  Paul didn’t have much experience with T or A, so he trusted Tim to know best.

  He also knew Tim was as guilty as the driven slush of spring on St. Isidore’s back roads but Paul never made a point of correcting his best — and only — friend.

  Still, Paul knew Tim hurt. Paul knew Tim better than anyone in St. Isidore.

  T-and-A Heaven had closed its teenage, playground doors to Tim after one of the girls found the courage to talk.

  “One hot bitch, the hottest of the hot,” Tim told Paul.

  Heather Jansema said she couldn’t live with the memory any more. She said couldn’t keep the book of her life closed on that chapter any longer. Heather told her mother everything.

  Heather talked about Tim rubbing her back and shoulders after an accident in the weight lifting room. When the other girls left, his hands wandered to her chest, her breasts and her butt.

  The first time, that is where it stopped.

  The second time, about a week later, his hands went under her shirt.

  The third time, he pulled her shirt up and off, put his hands under her sports bra, pushed it up, and start sucking on her nipples.

  One hand was between her legs. His fingers worked their way into her shorts like Vienna sausages floating in the pure, sweet spring water of lust. His other arm was around her back pushing her breast into his mouth.

  Heather couldn’t breathe. Her heart stopped. When she got her breath back it came in the gasps of hyperventilation. Tim thought it was the heavy breathing of an orgasm. Just like his.

  Tim was wrong of course, just like he had been mistaken about the same thing so many times.

  Heather fell over backwards. Tim’s mouth lost its suction on her nipple. His left hand moved down from his back to her butt, while the other worked its way deeper between her legs.

  She hit the ground. He got down beside her. She burst into tears. Tim stopped breathing heavy. He started breathing quickly. Tim was worried.

  “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry, Heather,” he said. “Please, please forgive me. That will never happen again.”

  Heather couldn’t think of anything to say. Her mind had completely locked down. She never had a problem with authority. Heather always did exactly what she was told. That’s what her parents taught her. That’s what her church taught her. If there was anything Heather knew, it was that she had to have respect for her elders, her parents, her pastor, and her teachers, especially the teachers.

  “I am sorry, please forgive me,” Tim said again, crawling on his hands and knees as Heather scuttled away from him in an upside down frog walk, hands, butt and heels escaping from this authority figure who had violated her trust and crossed the line.

  Heather wasn’t fast enough. Tim was on top of her, their lips inches apart, his six-foot, three-inch body over her five-foot, two inch frame.

  “I don’t know what came over me. It was Satan. It had to be Satan,” Tim said.

  He ran his fingers through her blonde hair.

  “Pray with me. Please pray with me.”

  Heather prayed with Tim. As she told her mother a few years later in a confession from college, she had never turned down a prayer request before, and couldn’t do it that time. Her prayer with Tim was nothing but muscle memory; a reflex reaction.

  “Besides, maybe this was my fault,” she told her mother, a sentence the woman cried over for the rest of her life.

  Still, the next sentences were even worse for a mother to hear.

  “Mr. Sheldon looked at me, with his face really close to mine and said, ‘Was there any part of that you enjoyed?’”

  Pamela Jansema nearly vomited.

  Heather didn’t have any evidence, but the “she said” part of this “he said, she said,” case was enough to convince the St.Isidore school board they didn’t want anything more to do with Tim.

  There had already been rumors flying through the hallways of the school like June bugs celebrating the summer. This was reality.

  A buyout package that Heather’s father considered an insult to his little girl was enough to get Tim to walk away and never come back.

  Heather never went back to church. Her parents never got over it.

  Bruce Jansema laid awake beside his wife, Pamela, every night imagining how he would make Tim pay for what the teacher had done and the school system had not.

  Every morning Bruce would apologize to his Lord for thinking like that.

  One morning he decided enough was enough.

  At least that was the medical examiner’s decision.

  “It was the only way he could turn the voices off,” everyone said.

  The police figured Bruce didn’t want his wife to find him dead, so he killed her first.

  They found Bruce and his wife naked, hanging from the trees in St. Isidore Forest.

  Heather never went back to St. Isidore.

  Tim never went back inside the school.

  He stayed outside.

  That’s where he spotted Bree.

  Bree had never been in his biology classes.

  “God, there were some honeys in those classes,” he told Paul. “But I still can’t believe I never saw her in the hallway.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tim got along with all of the kids, or at least most of them. They looked up to him literally. Six-foot-three, slim, Tim was in the habit of wearing jeans, loafers, and untucked checkered or plaid shirts that gave him the look of a gentleman farmer who had wandered into a classroom.

  Soft-spoken, never pushy, Tim was a gentleman’s gentleman. The girls loved him. The boys in college prep wanted to grow up to be like him.

  The boys in shop class wanted to grow up to beat him up. Not everyone loved Mr. Sheldon.

  “Look up ‘phony’ in the dictionary and you’ll see Tim Sheldon’s photo,” said one kid destined to wear a blue collar and make things for the rest of his life; doomed — or blessed — to lead a life of creativity with a welding torch and a wrench. Tim would take one view, many people in St. Isidore, the other.

  Still, Tim was a lifer. He couldn’t help himself. Tim returned to St. Isidore after college and stayed, even though he never liked it. He didn’t get along well in St. Isidore. The kids in shop class weren’t the only ones who considered him to be a phony.

  Several fathers of teenage girls suspected he had done their daughters like he did Heather. They’d heard the rumors. Some had the passwords to their daughters’ laptops and tablets. Those were the fathers who knew.

  It’s not like the fathers felt a need to wait for evidence. They never clouded the issue with facts. Still, none of them wanted to spend the rest of their lives worrying about picking up soap in the shower.

  Call it wisdom. They waited.

  Tim didn’t wait. He went after more of their daughters. He logged on to Bree’s Facebook page after he discovered her walking to class one spring morning in some incredibly short, denim shorts that left her bottom cheeks peeking out, and a tank top that left no need to wonder if she had full breasts and perky nipples.

  She wasn’t hard to find on Facebook and myriad other social media venues. A morning of surfing was time well spent for Tim.

  Bree’s photos were worth the effort. They left just enough to the imagination to allow a middle-age man to imagine the possibilities.

  “The answer would be ‘yes’ if anyone asked about perky, and no one has to,” Tim laughed as he finished another Bud. “I just about spilled my coffee all over the dashboard of my car when I saw her in those shorts and tank top.”

  Tim could have saved the gas and the coffee. Bree showed it all on Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, and some YouTube video
s.

  Still, it wasn’t enough for Tim. He had to have more. This was heaven on the internet.

  But let’s face it, as great as heaven is, if you are there for eternity, wouldn’t you get numb to it all after a while, Tim thought.

  Tim had spent enough afternoons in his underwear with Bree’s Facebook page and every page it linked to, one hand on the keyboard, the other in his briefs.

  He wanted the real thing. He wanted real life. He wanted Bree. So Tim started following her.

  At first he just idled in his car, tenting his jeans, staying a few blocks behind her as Bree walked home from school. Some of the other kids would spot him and wave, until he switched his car for an older pickup truck and grew a beard.

  Following Bree was like going on a journey back to Tim’s teenage years.

  Rather than going right home, Bree usually wound up on the banks of the Red Run River, St. Isidore’s connection to the Great Lakes since time began.

  The banks of the Red Run were also the St. Isidore teenagers’ connection to the wonderful world of marijuana, coke, crank, smack and hot love in the summer sun.

  At night they were at the Stop ’N Go. During the day, Bree and her friends searched for happiness on the Red Run.

  This is where the teens hung out every afternoon while the middle-aged men watched. Small wonder that St. Isidore Hardware did such a great business in binoculars. Tim wasn’t the only one.

  Tim had never been asked to join the club of the former. He was stuck in the latter. But he knew how to get into that exclusive club of teenagers. He would do it the same way middle-aged guys did it when Tim was a student at St. Isidore High. They bought booze. Tim would buy booze.

  The kids just laughed at him. They drank his booze. But they laughed. Worse, they snickered. Tim was beyond crushed. He was humiliated. The worst part was some of the kids recognized him, even with the beard.

  “Mr. Sheldon, what’s up?” One voice called out.

  “Hey, this is a lech-free zone,” another voice yelled.

  Luckily, Bree had not been there. She was the one he really wanted. She was the only one who mattered. She was the one he had fallen in lust with.

  If she had laughed, or heard the snickers, it would have been too much.

  True, they had never spoken. Tim wasn’t going to let that get in his way. He didn’t let it bother him on the Jennifer.com website and he wouldn’t in real life, either.

  Tim never went back to the banks of the Red Run River. However, he never lost sight of Bree, either. He followed her on Facebook, on Twitter, anywhere she was, anywhere he could fabricate an identity.

  “This is just the way it is done in the twenty-first century,” Tim explained to Paul.

  “It just seems wrong to me,” said Paul.

  “Hello, knock-knock,” Tim said as he rapped his knuckles on Paul’s forehead. “Open the door to the future.”

  Eventually, Bree and Tim chatted online. They exchanged photos. They were in heaven. Well, at least one of them was.

  Oh, the plans they shared. Bree told Tim, or William, or Bradford, or whoever he was that day on that social media venue, how much she hated her parents, how she wanted them both dead.

  Tim, in one of his many online disguises, told her how much he wanted to see her tied up and spanked, how much he wanted to live a BDSM lifestyle, not role play but real life with her, only her, for the rest of their natural lives.

  Bree told him it sounded great. Better than great. It was just what she wanted, too. She wanted to suck his cock, to have him fuck every orifice humanly possible and then do it again.

  Down, dirty and nasty. That’s the lifestyle she said she wanted.

  Bree was just what Tim had been waiting for since his last real girl friend.

  Bree wrote wonderful fantasies for the man she still thought of as “Mr. Sheldon.” She figured out early on who he was. It wasn’t that difficult since he seemed to be everywhere she was in St. Isidore, always a few hundred feet behind her, or parked in that ugly truck.

  It isn’t hard, she wrote to a Facebook friend. No pun intended. I will bet that it is LOL.

  He is so long and so lean, wrote her friend.

  The guy really is pretty hot, for someone his age, Bree wrote.

  But he is so old, LMAO.

  Don’t be so quick to judge. The old ones really perform for me.

  They buy you booze and dope.They give you money. And never ask for anything in return?

  LMAO they always want something in return. They are still waiting.

  Bree wrote Facebook fantasies about being in school back in the 1950s with Tim as her teacher — I knew he would love that LMAO — maybe paddling her if she was bad. Then she would get down on her knees and do what he really wanted.

  All of these fantasies were coming to life in her mind, and his, too. Tim was loving it, living it, agreeing with everything Bree wrote, promising her more than she asked, if only she would do another video just for him.

  Once Bree told Tim she knew who he was, and he got over the shock of being busted, Tim learned Bree had a crush on him since Day-One.

  What was an incredible ego rush for Tim was a wide open door of opportunity for Bree. And she used the webcam on her MacBook Air to really control Tim.

  So easy to get one more promise and more money from Mr. Sheldon for just a little flash.

  Down, dirty and nasty. If that is what he wanted for a fantasy, Bree could make that come true.

  Bree never hesitated to tell Tim about how much she hated her parents, especially her mother.

  God I hate that Bitch, Bree wrote. #cunt Can’t you help me take care of her?

  I could absolutely do that, Tim thought. I know how to take care of someone like that. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.

  Tim wrote about an artery that everyone had in his neck that if pressed would stop the flow of blood to the brain.

  “Hold it long enough and the person blacks out. Hold it a little longer and the person dies out,” he said during an online chat.

  You are perfect. You are the one I have been waiting for, Bree wrote.

  More than you could know, she thought.

  Our Mr. Sheldon will be even better than the others, this guy will do absolutely whatever I want, she wrote to Beth on Facebook.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bree woke up cold, naked and alone. No one should ever feel this way. No one could ever be ready for this, certainly not a sixteen-year old girl.

  God forbid, it should be Bree.

  She’s Miss Independent, gives her parents lip without thinking twice, the rebel in school, first to get inked, last to give in or put out with nothing in return, the master manipulator.

  Bree learned at a very early age how to use her sex, her magnetism, whatever it is, charisma, to get boys and girls, men and women, to do what she wanted, how she wanted, when she wanted. And they were damn glad to do it. She was a dominatrix without a crop, although she had considered that, too.

  A middle-aged man in the park had asked her, and Bree thought, well, why not?

  And now guys on the internet who want it so bad are sending me money through Pay Pal, Bree thought.

  But now I am..where? What the fuck is going on here? This can’t be happening to me.

  Bree was scared. More than scared. She was petrified. She was pee your pants, shivering, afraid for her life, scared. This time she might have gone too far. This time she might have overplayed her hand.

  This time she might have lost control.

  For the first time, Bree was scared. Really scared. Bree was thinking just one word. Just one word. The only word that could possibly make this better.

  Escape.

  But first Bree had to get back in control. A dark bag had replaced the plastic over her head. It smelled terrible. Even scared to death, Bree registered that.

  Her wrists were tied behind her back, her ankles in front of her as she sat on the dirt. Was she outside? Inside?

  Where the
fuck am I? It’s like a dirt pit. Good, God. This is not Bree land.

  What was I thinking when I agreed to this wacko’s fantasy? True, it was close to mine, but still...is this going to be worth it?

  Losing consciousness when her head hit the bumper had not been part of the plan.

  Bree was afraid she had a concussion. Her memory was fogging. She was having trouble putting her thoughts together.

  It might be time to give up. It might be time, for the first time to admit defeat.

  And if he had gone so far that she couldn’t be rescued, it was time to plan an escape.

  Bree remembered being at the Stop ’N Go. She remembered sharing cigarettes in the parking lot, letting the older guys cop a feel because it felt good to her to. And she remember being grabbed from behind when she was walking to the Red Run River, the plastic bag, the trunk, and then nothing but waking up in this dark, cold, place.

  Being grabbed was part of the plan. Fighting back was part of the plan. Being held in the basement was part of the plan. It was her plan. It was a wicked plan. It had to happen.

  But this wasn’t nearly as much fun as she thought it would be. This was not a fantasy come true, at least not for her.

  But it had to be done. It was her wicked plan.

  Bree’s teeth were chattering and the gears in her mind were running at one-hundred miles an hour.

  If there was one class Bree was good at in school it was algebra. She loved the logic of it.

  That was working for her now.

  She heard footsteps above her.

  She blinked her eyes and discovered she could see through the burlap bag over her head. Bree was in something that looked like a basement without the cement floor and wood paneled walls that were part of the basement under her home.

  Cold, dark, and drafty, with cobwebs in the corners, dust on everything, dirt on the floor. It’s what they called a cellar in St. Isidore, if she was still in St. Izzy. If she was, this had to be the old part of town. Nobody made houses like this anymore.There were only a couple of them with cellars in her neighborhood.